These stories can't be told without
your help.

Particular focus of interest? The federal judge in California
(George King) would decide in a few weeks how long a sentence
to hand down, and whether to send McWilliams to prison or let
him serve his sentence at home.

What was his offense? He collaborated in growing marijuana
plants.

What was his defense? Well, the judge wouldn't allow him to
plead his defense to the jury. If given a chance, the defense
would have argued that under Proposition 215, passed into California
constitutional law in 1996, infirm Californians who got medical
relief from marijuana were permitted to use it. The judge also
forbade any mention that McWilliams suffered from AIDS and cancer,
and got relief from the marijuana.

What was he doing when he died? Vomiting. The vomiting hit
him while in his bathtub, and he choked to death.

Was there nothing he might have done to still the impulse
to vomit? Yes, he could have taken marijuana; but the judge's
bail terms forbade him to do so, and he submitted to weekly urine
tests to confirm that he was living up to the terms of his bail.

Did anybody take note of the risk he was undergoing? He took
Marinol-a proffered, legal substitute, but reported after using
it that it worked for him only about one-third of the time. When
it didn't work, he vomited.

Was there no public protest against the judge's ruling? Yes.
On June 9, the television program "20/20" devoted a
segment to the McWilliams plight. Commentator John Stossel summarized:

"McWilliams is out of prison on the condition that he
not smoke marijuana, but it was the marijuana that kept him from
vomiting up his medication. I can understand that the federal
drug police don't agree with what some states have decided to
do about medical marijuana, but does that give them the right
to just end-run those laws and lock people up?"

Shortly after the trial last year, Charles Levendosky, writing
in the Ventura County (CA) Star, summarized: "The cancer
treatment resulted in complete remission." But only the
marijuana gave him sustained relief from the vomiting that proved
mortal.

Is it being said, in plain language, that the judge's obstinacy
resulted in killing McWilliams? Yes. The Libertarian Party press
release has made exactly that charge. "McWilliams was prohibited
from using medical marijuana - and being denied access to the
drug's anti-nausea properties almost certainly caused his death."

Reflecting on the judge's refusal to let the jury know that
there was understandable reason for McWilliams to believe he
was acting legally, I ended a column in this space in November
by writing, "So, the fate of Peter McWilliams is in the
hands of Judge King. Perhaps the cool thing for him to do is
delay a ruling for a few months, and just let Peter McWilliams
die." Well, that happened last week, on June 14.

The struggle against a fanatical imposition of federal laws
on marijuana will continue, as also on the question whether federal
laws can stifle state initiatives. Those who believe the marijuana
laws are insanely misdirected have a martyr.

Peter was a wry, mythogenic guy, humorous, affectionate, articulate,
shrewd, sassy. He courted anarchy at the moral level. His most
recent book (his final book) was called "Ain't
Nobody's Business If You Do." We were old friends,
and I owe my early conversion to word processing to his guidebook
on how to do it. Over the years we corresponded, and he would
amiably twit my conservative opinions. When I judged him to have
gone rampant on his own individualistic views in his book, I
wrote him to that effect. I cherish his reply - nice acerbic
deference, the supreme put-down.

"Please remember the Law of Relativity as applied to
politics: In order for you to be right, at least someone else
must be wrong. Your rightness is only shown in relation to the
other's wrongness. Conversely, your rightness is necessary for
people like me to look truly wrong. Before Bach, people said
of bad organ music, 'That's not quite right.' After Bach, people
said flatly, 'That's wrong.' This allowed dedicated composers
to grow, and cast the neophytes back to writing how-to-be-happy
music. So, thank me for my wrongness, as so many reviews of my
book will doubtless say, 'People should read more of a truly
great political commentator: William F. Buckley Jr.'"

Imagine such a spirit ending its life at 50, just because
they wouldn't let him have a toke. We have to console ourselves
with the comment of the two prosecutors. They said they were
"saddened" by Peter McWilliams' death. Many of us are
- by his death and the causes of it.

From Peter McWilliams - Activist & Bestselling
Author of How to Survive the Loss of a Loved One, the
Life 101 series, and Ain't Nobody's Business If You
Do

It
is December 18, 1997, 6:24 a.m.

Twenty-four hours ago I was working in my living room on my
computer next to a fire -- sort of high-tech meets Abe Lincoln.
It was not yet dawn, and I had been working most of the night.
Leonard Cohen's "Famous Blue Raincoat" begins, "It's
four in the morning, the end of December." It's a special
time of night and a special time of year.

A hard pounding on the door accompanied by shouts of "Police!
Open Up!" broke the silence, broke my reverie, and nearly
broke down the door. I opened the door, in my bathrobe, and was
immediately handcuffed. I was taken outside my house while the
Drug Enforcement Administration agents ran through my house,
guns drawn, commando-style, looking for, I suppose, the notorious,
well-armed, highly trained Medical Marijuana Militia. After about
five minutes of this, I was taken back into my own home, still
handcuffed, and told to sit down. I was informed I was not under
arrest; I was merely being "restrained" while the DEA
"enforced the search warrant."

I was told they had a search warrant, but none was immediately
produced. Over time, more and more of it was placed on a table
nearby. I was never told the reasons why the judge issued a search
warrant for my home of eleven years, my new home (two-doors down),
and Prelude Press' offices, my publishing company. The reasons,
I was told, were "under seal." In other words, I have
no way of determining if this is a "reasonable" search
and seizure. The nine DEA officers put on rubber gloves and systematically
went through every piece of paper in my house, and they didn't
even have to tell me why.

I should point out, as I promised them I would, that I was
never "roughed up." The DEA agents were, at all times,
polite, if not openly friendly. Agents would ask me tentative,
curious questions about my books, as though we had just met at
an autographing party. They would admire my art, as though they
were invited guests into my home. They would call me by my first
name, although I am old enough to be the parental unit of any
of them. One of the lead agents made it a special point to tell
me that the DEA has a reputation for busting into people's homes,
physically abusing them, and destroying property, all in the
name of "a reasonable search and seizure." This, the
DEA agent reminded me on more than one occasion, was not taking
place during this search and seizure. I agreed, and promised
to report that fact faithfully. I have now done so.

I suppose the DEA considers this a step up, and I suppose
I agree, but there was an eerie, perhaps more frightening aspect
about having bright (for the most part), friendly, young people
systematically attempting to destroy my life. I do not use the
word destroy lightly. DEA agents are trained to fight a war,
the War on Drugs, and in that war I am the enemy. The DEA, therefore,
fights me with the only tool it has -- taking everything I own,
selling it, spending that money on hiring more DEA Special Agents
to fight the Drug War, and putting me in jail for the rest of
my life. From these young people's point of view, it is an act
of patriotism.

As one DEA agent told the office manager of my publishing
company, "We'll probably be taking over here in about six
months." The agent meant that it is within the DEA's plans
to take everything I own, including my publishing company, through
assets forfeiture --that lovely gift of the War on Drugs allowing
law enforcement agencies to take your property without the benefit
of a trial, or even court order, and you must hire a lawyer and
go to court to prove the property they took was innocent of Drug
War mutiny.

But I am more than the DEA's enemy. Because I have had the
nerve to speak out against the War on Drugs, that makes me not
just an enemy, but a traitor. In 1993, I published "Ain't Nobody's
Business If You Do: The Absurdity of Consensual Crimes in Our
Free Country." In this Libertarian tome, I explored
in some detail the War on Drug'í unconstitutionality,
racism, anti-free market basis, deception, wastefulness, destructiveness,
and un-winnability. Yes, the Drug War is another Viet Nam, and
the drug warriors have no intention of becoming the homeless
people so many Viet Nam veterans have tragically become. Smart
warriors. So, they don't like me, and I must admit, I'm pretty
bad.

But when I got sick, I got even worse.

Since March 1996 and my personal discovery of marijuana's
medicinal benefits when AIDS and cancer entered my life, I have
been an outspoken advocate of medical marijuana. I donated office
space to the Los Angeles Cannabis Buyer's Club, led the successful
PR campaign to get the operators of that club out of jail after
its October 1996 bust, founded the Medical Marijuana Magazine
on-line in February 1997, testified in favor of medical marijuana
in front of the California Medical Examiners Board and the National
Academy of Sciences, and appeared in numerous media (including
CNN, MSNBC, The Los Angeles Times, Associated Press, United Press
International, CBS Radio Network, and dozens more) advocating
medical marijuana.

For a sick guy, Iíve been around. (Actually, I've been
around, and that's how I got sick, but that's another story.)
Most disturbing to the DEA, I would guess, was my strong criticism
of the DEA in a two-page ad I placed in the December 1, 1997
"Daily Variety." I denounced DEA Chief Thomas Constantine's
threat to criminally investigate the creators of "Murphy
Brown" for Murphy's fictional medical marijuana use. With
comments such as, "The DEA gives the phrase "'ambulance
chasing' a whole new meaning", I'm surprised it took them
seventeen days.

About two weeks ago, the Medical Marijuana Magazine On-line
announced it would soon be posting portions of the book about
medical marijuana I have been working on for almost two years,
"A Question of Compassion: An AIDS Cancer Patient Explores
Medical Marijuana." This brings us back to my computer
and the DEA agents' almost immediate interest in it. My computer
and its back-up drives, which the DEA also took, contained the
entirety of my creative output -- most of it unpublished -- for
the almost two years since my diagnosis. My central project has
been the above-mentioned book. Being a fair, balanced, objective
view of medical marijuana in the United States, the book is unscathingly
critical of the DEA.

So, they took the computer, they took all of my backup copies
from the computer, and took along most of my research materials
on medical marijuana, just to balance the load. If I don't get
those back, I will be looking at least three months additional
work to get to where I was in that book alone, and redoing what
you've already done is disheartening at best. Not only am I somewhat
in shock for having been invaded and my "children"
kidnapped, every time I go for something -- from a peanut butter
cup to a magazine -- it's not there. Something is there, but
it's not what was there twenty-four hours before. Everything
reeks of nine different fragrances commingled in close quarters,
something along the lines of the men's cologne department at
Macy's. My address books were taken -- not just copied, but taken.
As you can imagine, all this is most disorienting.

A few random observations:

They took a microcassette tape from the recorder next to
my bed. On the tape I had dictated a letter to President Clinton
(dictating to President Clinton in bed seemed appropiate), asking
him to rise above politics and show his compassion by making
medical marijuana available to the sick. I may never get to mail
that letter now, but I certainly hope the DEA agent who listens
to it will transcribe it and send it to his or her bossís
bossís boss.

I have precisely three porn magazines in my house. All three
were placed out on top of things before photographing those things.
A jury, looking at these photographs, would think I have pornography
all over the place. I don't mind if a jury thinks this, because
my view of pornography agrees completely with that of Oscar Levant,
"It helps."

When the DEA agents found a collection of "Playboys"
at the offices of Prelude Press (the Playboy Forum is one of
the best anti-prohibition information sources around), I am told
three of the male DEA agents spent a great deal of time testosteronistically
(I get to coin words; I'm a writer, and I know what I'm doing,
but don't try this sort of thing at home without professional
supervision, okay?) pointing out to each other portions of the
magazine that had nothing to do with drugs but are obviously
addictive nonetheless.

There were seven men and two women, and I observed closely
for almost three hours (handcuffs have a way of riveting your
attention). Whatever their ranking may be I do not know, but
the women were treated as subservient to the men, and the women
accepted this role without complaint. Each of the men gave commands
to the women, but I didn't hear a woman give a command to a man.
Perhaps the women are starting at the bottom as the newest recruits
in the DEA's outreach to women it started to reach out to, ya
know, improve the Boys-with-Toys image of the DEA. For the time
being, at least, from this limited sociological sampling, I would
say the DEA is still very much The Constantine Boys' Club.

An invasion of nine people into the world of someone with
a suppressed immune system is risky at best. Keep in mind, DEA
agents come into contact with criminals from all sorts of international
places with all sort of diseases. Some diseases their young federal
bodies don't develop, only pass along. I think of certain strains
of tuberculosis, deadly to AIDS people, but rampant in certain
quarters, quarters where I make it a point not to go, quarters,
however, in which the DEA seems to thrive. Since my diagnosis,
I have lived the life of a near hermit, especially during flu
season, which is now. Thundering into my sterile home surrounded
by the clean air of Laurel Canyon (yes, I'm a Lady of the Canyon),
comes the walking equivalent of germ warfare. At least two of
them were openly sniffling or coughing. Six of them handled me
in some way. I kept flashing back to the U.S. Cavalry passing
out smallpox-infested blankets to shivering Native Americans.
Have these people no sense of the struggle AIDS people have fighting
illness and the lengths some of us go to avoid unnecessary exposure?
(Naive American question, huh?)

Philosophically, or at least stoically, one could say all
this is part of my research into medical marijuana and those
who oppose it -- especially into those who oppose it. The problem
is,I'm not sure what I've learned. One of two scenarios surfaces,
one more frightening than the next.

Scenario One: The DEA, angered by my criticism and fearful
of more, decided to intimidate me and have a free peek at my
book in the bargain.

Scenario Two: The DEA, caught in a blind, bureaucratic nightmare,
is just now, five months later, getting around to investigating
my connection as possible financier of Todd McCormick's "Medical
Marijuana Mansion" or even -- gasp! -- that I grew some
for myself. This means that in order to justify the arrest of
Todd McCormick
-- a magnificent blunder -- they are now going to come after
me, a magnificent blubber.

Either way, if the federal government has its way, I will
spend the rest of my life in a federal prison, all expenses paid,
and deaths from AIDS-related illnesses can be very costly, indeed.
Truth be told, prison doesn't particularly frighten me. All I
plan to do the rest of my life is create things, anyway. Write,
mostly, I think. Or, maybe, talk. I've been everywhere I want
to go. It's my time of life for didactic pontificating. It is
a phase writers go through immediately preceded by channel surfing
and immediately followed by channel surfing. Or hemlock.

If the DEA has seized my computer to silence me, I am not
going to be silenced, as I hope this missive illustrates. The
DEA's next oppressive move, then, would be my arrest. (Some have
cautioned me about assassination, which I find this difficult
to comprehend -- but then I thought my writings were so safe
(freedom on the press, and all) I didn't even have a backup in
a Public Storage locker somewhere. I should, I suppose, state
that I am not in any way suicidal about any of this -- or anything
else, for that matter. If I should die before the DEA wakes and
they say my death was a suicide -- don't you believe it. I plan
to go about as quietly into that good night as Timothy Leary.
Still, this concern is far from my mind.)

If they intend to come after me as the financier of Todd
McCormick's medical marijuana empire, the DEA knows full
well that I took credit for that immediately after Todd's arrest
-- which made a lie of the DEA's claim that Todd purchased his
"mansion" with "drug money." Yes, I gave
Todd McCormick enough money to rent the ugliest house in Bel-Air
and, being Todd McCormick,
he grew marijuana there. The money I gave him was an advance
for a book on cultivating marijuana.

In July 1997, the DEA came in to his home, uninvited, destroyed
his plants (one had been alive since 1976), and took his computer,
on which he had notes for his book. He cannot use medical marijuana
as a condition of his bail-release. He is drug-tested twice-weekly.
He cannot go to Amsterdam where he could legally find relief.
Todd now faces life imprisonment -- a ten-year mandatory minimum
-- and a $4 million fine, all for cultivating medical marijuana,
which is specifically permitted under the California Compassionate
Use Act of 1996. The DEA at the federal level and Attorney General
Dan Lungren (with Governor Pete Wilson smiling his approval from
on high) in California should have opposed Proposition 215 in
court. There, they had the right -- and the responsibility, if
they truly believed it wrong -- to challenge the law and make
their case for the prohibition of its enactment. They did not.
Instead, the DEA is fighting its battles in Todd's and my sickrooms.

Sick.

I
write these things and feel myself in mortal combat with a gnarly
monster; then I remember the human faces of the kind people who
tried to make me comfortable with small talk as they went through
my belongings as neatly as they could. Then I remember, painfully,
that the War on Drugs is a war fought by decent Americans against
other decent Americans, and these people rifling through my belongings
really were America's best -- bright young people willing to
die for their country in covert action. It takes a special kind
of person for that, and every Republic must have a generous number
of them in order to survive.

But instead of our best and our brightest being trained to
hunt down terrorist bombs or child abductors -- to mention but
two useful examples -- our misguided government is using all
that talent to harass and arrest Blacks, Hispanics, the poor,
and the sick -- the casualties in the War on Drugs, the ones
that, to quote Leonard Cohen again, "sank beneath your wisdom
like a stone." It is the heart of the evil of a prohibition
law in a free country. After all, picking on someone with AIDS
and cancer is a little redundant, don't you think?